Shhh
by nmickyhay
Summary: Jay and Silent Bob pre-slash. "Jay hated it when Bob talked."


-Shhh-

Pre-slash, Jay/Silent Bob.

Hard R for: explicit sex talk, fantasies, kinky stuff, gay-ness, language, disrespect to women, drinking.

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Jay hated it when Bob talked.

All right, so sometimes the silent bitch had something urgent to say, and Jay was fine with that. Maybe Bob had to warn him about LaFours or interpret for his crazy Russian cousin, and that was all right. Or sometimes Bob would explain to him why their stereo system distorted the bass line of "Leather and Denim (Satan's Plaything Mix)" ("So what you're saying is it's a piece of shit, nootch"), or what a rug-muncher was ("Y'mean like 'Finger-Cuffs'?!"), or why the quantum mechanics behind that one -Spider-man- storyline were actually plausible ("What the fuck do scientists smoke all the time?"), or what "likeness rights" meant ("Goddamn, Silent Bob, let's go kick some funny-book-drawing ass!"). Jay would listen to Silent Bob's low, precise voice for as long as a minute or two -- Jay's maximum attention span -- and feel weirdly soothed, just for a minute, like from knowing Bob had all the answers and he was on Jay's side.

But it pissed him off hearing Silent Bob just talk, in public, to anybody, like it was no big deal. Like he was a regular guy who ordered his own fucking beers and said God bless you when somebody sneezed. Once in a while at parties Jay would be trying to get into some slut's pants and suddenly his ears would prick up. His ears always pricked up at that voice, 'cause it usually meant either the shit was hitting the fan or some Jedi wisdom was being dispensed, and he didn't want to miss anything.

So he'd turn around and there Bob would be, drinking a beer and calmly talking to friends, waxing all philosophical and shit, or flirting with a redhead, and he had the nerve to completely ignore Jay's accusing glare. Jay could never help it. He always expected Bob to at least look embarrassed or something, like fucking acknowledge that this was not normal behavior for Mute Boy. But no. Man was cool as a fucking ice cube. And people actually listened, just as attentively as Jay did, looking all amazed and shit. Fuckin' morons.

Nobody ever listened to Jay that way. Maybe Lunchbox sometimes. Like you could tell if the bitch was listening anyway.

A lot of times Jay'd stand there staring at this suddenly chatty fucker and he'd completely lose track of the chick he'd been hitting on. He'd always bitch Lunchbox out about that, afterwards. Jay blamed his failures to get laid on Silent Bob anyway, four times out of five ("Yeah, you, you fuckin' gay bitch").

The first time he could remember Bob pulling this shit at a party was a couple years back. He'd walked in and T.S. and John M. were both listening raptly as the fat bitch wrapped up some long, heart-wrenching story about some chick Jay'd never heard of, and Bob had been in love but then lost her because he thought she was too successful for him, or some shit. Fucking Amy, that's what it was. It took Jay years before he figured out Bob always told the same story, always the same name, only different details each time. It was like he was reliving what had happened, reanalyzing it, trying to change it around. Like another time, Amy'd left him because she didn't want him dealing, or 'cause he'd cheated on her when he was drunk. So how many sluts named Amy were there in Jersey, anyway? Jay didn't know one.

Not that Jay really fucking cared about Bob's imaginary love life. Yeah, imaginary, bitch. Him fucking some bitch without Jay knowing or how it could still be "a couple years ago" a couple years later or who the hell Amy was actually supposed to be. He guessed Amy was who Bob was thinking of when he got all teary-eyed at -Pretty in Pink- and "We Don't Make Love Anymore" ("Alright, quit sobbing like a little girl with a skinned knee, I'll buy you a fuckin' ice cream cone, shit"). Beyond that, didn't really matter.

One time he asked Bob straight-on why it was always the Amy story, and why all the different versions of it, just to see the fat boy squirm. And after Bob squinted and smoked and evaded his questions for a bit, he started to say how the story was about really about how you needed to put love before anything else in your life, and other such shit. And then he added: "'Chasing Amy' is the origin story of Silent Bob. It explains things for people, so they don't have to ask a lot of pointless questions."

Which stopped Jay, at the time. He knew what an origin story was, and mostly they were completely unbelievable bullshit. As in, your parents were crushed under the giant testicles of someone with elephantiasis, so you spend the rest of your life fighting crime as Balls-Man, or some shit. Like real life was that simple. "What -- you mean it's just something you made up? Naga-noonch, I fuckin' knew it, man! You and the fuckin' love of your life, shit. Amy my ass."

Silent Bob gave him a really dirty look at that, for some reason. "The actual facts of the story aren't the point," Bob said, clearing his throat. "The point is that when people hear me talk, they don't end up asking what the hell I'm doing with my life, because --"

And Jay cut him off. "What-the-fuck-ever, man. Pass me the wraps." Not like he really needed to hear another bullshit story from the man today.

Anyway, every time Jay heard Silent Bob talk to somebody else it gave him the fucking creeps. Didn't like getting reminded that the fat fuck had a life of his own, maybe. Dancer in Vegas and shit. Or like, when you came down to it, the man really didn't need Jay to do his talking for him, he just kept him around for some reason.

Jay didn't care what the hell Bob was doing with his life, long as he was Jay's bitch. Jay did need someone to do the listening, and he knew it.

All right, but fuck, this pissed him off even more. Usually Jay'd talk, and Bob would listen and nod thoughtfully like the bitch he was, but then once in a while he'd say something and sometimes it just fucked Jay up somehow. Like the other day. The other fucking day Jay'd been in his top salesman form, and fuck, normally Jay could sell strap-ons to nuns if he tried hard enough, let alone sweet-talk Silent Bob, who did whatever Jay told him most of the time. What had happened was, this hot slut had told him she'd fuck him if he brought his "cute friend" to bed with them, snootch to the nootch, so what was Jay gonna do but explain the situation to Bob. Persuasively. Mentioning more than once just how hot Missy's tits were in anything low-cut, hell, in anything at all.

And Bob just shook his head. What the fuck? Jay must have rambled on for like an hour in front of the Quick Stop, whining, wheedling, bargaining, tossing insults, questioning Bob's masculinity, everything, and when he paused for breath Bob just said:

"I'm not interested in that kind of thing, Jay." Flat. Cool, like he didn't even care. Like "that kind of thing" was beneath him or something. Stood there and lit up his thirty-seventh Goddamn cigarette while Jay slumped against the wall and sulked.

It was fucking humiliating, getting batted down that way, 'cause usually he didn't even get so worked up about something so stupid. It was like he was fixed on the idea. He'd run into Missy at the Nite Owl and when she'd brought up the threesome idea in that hot little whisper across the table, resting her chin on her hand, he'd gotten instantly hard, and now he probably wasn't gonna even get to cop a feel on the bitch. And what was the point of having a hetero lifemate if he couldn't get Jay's ass laid once in a while?

It wasn't like Saint Shithead could have any Catholic moral inhibitions left after years of hanging around Jay, like in that one Amy story where he claimed to be all offended by the threesome concept. Anyhow, he should be fucking flattered since the sluts apparently could see past the big fat ass and belly and think Silent Bob was sexy. Did that not even have an effect on him?

And it wasn't like the gay bitch wouldn't probably love the chance to see Jay naked, right? Noonch.

Granted there was something kinda gay about the whole threesome offer -- Jay knew a few chicks actually got off on guy-on-guy action -- but he figured it'd work like in pornos he'd seen, where the slut would make like Finger-Cuffs, or better yet where the two guys held her up between them and fucked her in both holes. Fuck, if the bitch tried to get him and Bob to kiss or some gay shit, he'd make her forget all about that with some of his smooth Jay moves. Easily. He'd already pictured the whole thing, actually: Bob kissing Missy in the shy, goofy way he always kissed girls, an image that sent hot pleasure and queasiness spreading through Jay. Jay grinding deep inside Missy with her perfect tits pressed up against his chest and her pink mouth panting, while Silent Bob held her waist in his thick, strong arms and slid slowly into her ass. The shock in Missy's big blue eyes, her little moan at having something that thick in her tight bung, the strands of her dark hair falling into her face. Jay didn't know much about anatomy, but he thought her pussy would get even tighter with something pressing from the back, and you'd be able to feel the friction too, feel the other cock rubbing through a layer of flesh. Fuck yeah. And he could see Bob's face, panting and flushing, his big brown eyes widening and rolling back in ecstasy, his own hair grazing Missy's shoulder. He imagined Bob silent.

So maybe he'd imagined more than that -- stroke fantasies were your own damn business. The point was, he'd just wanted some harmless fun, nothing gay about that, and now he was all pent up from the ideas Missy'd put in his head, and headed back to the same club to see if he could pick up some new slut. Silent Bob was trailing along as usual, and being determined not to say another fucking word about Missy Jay ranted and bitched nonstop about the customers who owed them money and hadn't shown up, and the stupid gay names people came up with for clubs, and anything else he could think of. Being back at the Nite Owl made him think of Missy and a lot of other things.

Fucking slut. She'd probably go home with any two guys she thought were cute. She was probably fucking two guys right now. Guys who weren't former Catholics or fucking homophobes or stubborn repressed fat-assed bitches, probably.

Jay was in a foul mood by the time he got into the club and almost threw himself down on a barstool. The live band was just about to start the next song and the lights on the dance floor were blue and blinding white, pulsing already at a frantic beat.

"Two whiskey and Cokes," Jay snapped at the bartender. Usually neither of them drank anything harder than beer. He could almost feel Bob's eyebrow raise at that as the fat boy climbed onto the stool beside him. He gave a quick glare -- any arguments, asshole? -- and Bob shrugged. Fine. Jay turned and surveyed the dance floor as the music got going. Coupla fine-assed bitches out there, nootch. Over at the other end of the bar there was a couch, not really the place to make out 'cause it was so well-lit, but there was one chick in a short skirt sitting with her legs crossed, fuck yeah.

Tell the truth he'd take whatever pink he could get tonight, he was all pent up and had a mean feeling like he needed to kick something. Maybe he'd get out on the dance floor, get it out of his system. Catch some slut's eye.

He took a big sip of his drink and shivered. The unaccustomed liquor hit his throat at the same second he saw her across the room, stepping off the dance floor and towards the other end of the bar. Missy. She even had on the same white crop top she'd been wearing last week when she whispered across the table at him. Fuck. He wanted her.

Jay turned and hit Bob on the arm to get his attention. He hadn't even touched his drink, he was just sitting there smoking. Did the bitch appreciate anything Jay did for him? "Hey!" Jay half-yelled above the pounding music. "Last chance, man!" He pointed at Missy, who was leaning with one hand against the bar and finishing off a drink.

Bob looked at Jay, looked at Missy, and shrugged again. No expression. Took a drag off his cigarette.

The bastard. Well, fine. Jay shrugged right back at him and got up. The music beat in his ears as he strode over to Missy, grabbed her waist, twirled her around, and kissed her. A nice, hot, lover-type kind of kiss, not just Jay's usual porn-tongue action. It worked, too. Missy's eyes widened in seeming pleasure and she kissed back just as enthusiastically. Jay kept her at an angle so Silent Bob could see exactly what they were doing from where he sat. Let the fucker see what he was missing out on. When she and Jay drew apart for breath she asked, "So where's your friend? Did you ask him if he wanted -- ?"

"Shhh," Jay whispered back at her, tracing a finger down her cheek on the visible side. He kissed her again and laid one hand at the small of her back, running the other slowly through her hair. As smooth as he'd ever been. Yeah, and if the bitch didn't just about melt into him at that. She felt soft and warm against him but she had too much fucking perfume on, he thought. Nice hair, anyway. It wasn't at all hard to sink his hand into her hair and stroke it, all passionately, like he was savoring the texture and shit. When she started kissing his neck he sneaked a look across the room to see if the silent motherfucker was catching any of this.

Silent Bob was staring at him. Good. What with the dim light from the bar and the flashing dance floor lights, Jay couldn't tell if he looked angry or sort of sad or just blank. Bob caught Jay looking at him and his gaze hardened. Jay glared back. Fuck you anyway, Lunchbox. Shithead. He dipped his head, still watching Bob from the corner of his eye, and brushed a strand of hair tenderly from Missy's neck before placing a slow, wet kiss there. Missy rubbed up against him. He could still feel Bob's gaze and when he looked up, just for a second, Bob kept looking straight into Jay's eyes as he picked up his glass, tipped it, and drained every drop.

Jay felt his much-pent-up dick stiffen against Missy's jeans. That mingled heat and queasiness from his fantasies shot through him and he grabbed Missy's hips, rubbing against her and kissing up her neck to her ear. She moaned a little and he had the sudden urge to tell her to shut up. Last night he'd jerked off imagining her moans but now that he was hearing the real thing it sounded fake and whiny. And shit, if she was makin' noise after just a kiss or two, what was she gonna do when he licked her ass? Shit.

"Hey, baby," he whispered close to her ear, "c'mere, let's sit down. Over here." And he led her toward the couch. The girl who'd been there earlier was gone, and there was lots of room. Missy followed him, eyes sparkling. Her eyes were the same color as the dance lights on her white top, he noticed, pale and shallow-looking but still pretty. Jay pulled her close to him, slid a hand just under her boob, and planted another hot, sincere-type kiss on the slut.

Damn if she didn't moan again, loud enough to hear over the music.

Fucking bitch.


End file.
